


The Diary of Oikawa Tooru

by zeldaring



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (sarcasm), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bridget Jones Diary AU, Iwaizumi is Mark Darcy aka Colin Firth, M/M, Oikawa is Birdget (obviously), akaashi is the sensible friend and Suga is wild, although it's an incredible book and movie so would recommend, and Kuroo is Daniel aka Hugh Grant, because I'm hilarious and so clever, but a lot less of a dick you know, i renamed the 'pretty setter squad' the pretty singles 'squad', no prior knowledge of Bridget Jones' Diary is needed, please enjoy the volleyball rom-com of the year, this is so self indulgent dear lord
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 23:39:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7778143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldaring/pseuds/zeldaring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tooru adjusts his glasses on the brim of his nose and stares blankly at his notebook. With a sigh he finally puts pen to paper scribbles something down, sulking further into the sofa.</p><p>'Firstly', he begins, 'I will join a gym.' </p><p>He taps the pen against the side of his cheek, eyeing the empty wine bottle guiltily. </p><p>'Secondly, I will stop drinking every night of the week.' </p><p>'I will also-', he scratches at the paper with a little too much force, '-find myself a nice, sensible man who wants to take care of me and not fuck me just because he’s in love with his best friend.'</p><p>He eyes his list cautiously, about to close the notepad until the beep of his phone distracts him again. He expects another text from Kuroo, but instead Tooru opens his phone and observes a message from his mother. Immediately he’s assaulted with a text message entitled ‘Tooru and Hajime, aged 8 and 9’ and an attatched photo of two young boys, one who looks shamefully naked and alarmingly like himself, splashing about in a paddling pool—</p><p>Tooru irritably slams the phone back onto the coffee table. </p><p>'And finally, avoid uptight, arrogant and self righteous pricks like Iwaizumi Hajime.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> so this is so self indulgent idk where to begin. This is following the basic outline of bridget jones with a few twist and turns. This was purely born because I was rereading the books and i was like 'wow bridget reminds of someone hm i wonder who" and then suddenly it hit me. Oikawa. Obviously.
> 
> How you ask? well alas my friends i am both deaf and blind to question idk how to answer. 
> 
> so please enjoy me indulging in my love for volleyball anime and rom-coms, I'm sorry for this trash.
> 
> my tumblr is akaakeji.tumblr.com hmu
> 
> P.S if you're here because of meme team (which u may be) it's being updated tomorrow, i promise.

It all began on New Years Day; Tooru’s 27th year of being single.

 

Once again he found himself on his own; mercilessly roped into it via a guilt trip that he would rather not relive, as he went to his mothers New Years gathering. Complete with an ensemble of relatives that he’d spent years trying to forget, (with or without the use of alcohol, and varying quantities of such,) as well as questionable Japanese delicacies he dared not to query, in fear of being scolded like a five year old.

 

“ _Boyish good looks don’t last forever, Tooru.”_ His mother muttered, placing down yet another alarming portion of mochigome and dumplings. She swept an invisible drop of sweat off her brow, and sighed triumphantly at the army of food spread out across the living room.

 

“Whoever told you that was a dirty liar, and should be removed from your telephone book” Tooru mutters, fruitlessly digging through his mother’s pantry for something that looked vaguely familiar and modern. “Are you absolutely sure you have no milk bread?” 

 

“Milk bread is fattening.” his sister murmured, still draping her pregnant form inelegantly across the couch. She flicks through a trashy magazine that Tooru had left on the coffee table, scrunching her nose at the various unappealing headlines. “According to this, you should only aim to have five grams of sugar in your diet.” 

 

“That’s nice,” Tooru hums, “I think it’s really interesting that you’re probably about 13 pounds heavier then me at the moment, and yet still feel as though you can criticize my dietary habit.”  

 

“I’m pregnant, you’re 27 and single.”

 

“This is ridiculous,” his mother gave the table cloth one more tug, and eyed her children skeptically. “I can’t believe the two of you are already bickering – Tooru, get out of the pantry!” 

 

With a groan, Tooru (reluctantly) retreated out of the pantry.

 

His mother smiled sweetly at him, and took a calming breath. “Tooru, why don’t you go upstairs? I’ve laid something out that’s very flattering on your old bed. It’s important that you look your best for tonight.” 

 

Tooru crunched his nose, and frowned. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

 

His mother arched a skeptical eyebrow, and ran her eyes over Tooru’s outfit. “You’re wearing a ‘Star Trek’ sweatshirt and ripped skinny jeans, Tooru.”

 

“It’s vintage.”

 

“It’s a mess.”

 

“Why’s it important how I look, anyways?  _I like_ how I look, and honestly, as my mother, that should be the only thing that matters.” Tooru’s mother gave another dramatic sigh, wringing her apron through her hands impatiently. 

 

“Tooru, I just think that... tonight especially... it would do you some good to put in more effort, past your hair and skin care. There are certain... guests... that I feel would be in your interest to impress.” Tooru furrowed his brow, sending a despairing look to his sister. 

 

Finally, his sister cracked and struggled out of the cushioned sofa, rubbing back with a wince. “This is more painful to watch then my back spasms,” she groans,” Tooru, what mother’s trying to put  _delicately,_ is there will be  _g-a-y people_  here.” 

 

Suddenly the world makes sense again, no longer clouded by a vague and elusive fog known as Tooru’s mother, but now a lighthouse spreading beams of white, casting streams to reveal nothing but a rocky brick wall. 

 

Tooru closes his eyes, bites back a groan, and sighs.

 

“Mother, we’ve been through this, Makki and Mattisun are married.  _To each other.”_

 

“No, no. Not them.” His mother dismissed him. “I’ve found  _that_  out the hard way. No, there’s going to be someone else there. Someone you might be pleasantly surprised to see.”  Tooru shared a look with his sister, one that echoes the same note of dubiousness. With a small shrug, and a heavy shoulder of reluctance, Tooru removed himself from the living room in hopes of defusing the tension. 

 

Tooru is, (surprisingly,) not one to purposely try and cause family drama, and so, with little-to-no tantrums, he reluctantly bares the  _interesting_ outfit laid out in front of him. He tries to ignore the striking, vibrant, turquoise of the kimono outstretched on his bed, picking it up with a scowl. It’s silk, sitting heavy over his thin arms, and clings uncomfortably to his torso, littered rather boisterously with untarnished, white silhouettes of blossom flowers. It’s probably the most un-masculine kimono he’s ever come across, (at least, one that was apparently ‘meant’ for men,) and made him look embarrassingly young, and  _pretty –_ as in  _manga boy pretty. (THOSE kind of manga’s.)_

 

He eyes himself skeptically in the mirror, puffing out his chest, and picks musingly at the draping cerulean across his torso. 

 

 _It’s for the greater good,_ Tooru reminds himself solemnly, when he finally emerged from his bedroom. He made his way back down the staircase, with caution tensing his posture. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d actually worn a kimono, let alone one this striking. The kimono brought an unwelcoming eye as he finally came downstairs, fully encompassed by the disarray of long-lost relatives and close relations of sorts, littering his living room like reckless cattle. 

 

“Oh Tooru, the colour looks gorgeous on you!” his mother cooed, straightening out the kimono’s opening.

 

“Thanks.” He replied, flatly. He had to agree – if anyone could pull off toothpaste green, it had to be him. His mother beamed at him and tucked a stray lock of chestnut hair behind his ear, letting her eyes sparkle with shameless hope. Tooru wants to loosen his belt under the heat and the expectance of his mother, but instead allows her to link her arm through his, and drag him through the people.

 

Almost immediately, he’d awkwardly greeted by over-intrusive relatives, all of whom asked  _that_ question once presented with Tooru’s vulnerable and open form. 

 

His overbearing ‘aunt’, (one of those aunts he’s had to call aunt since he was three, even though he is more then slightly sure that there is no blood relation at all,)  can’t help but let the bomb drop first. She scoops Tooru up in her arms, crushing him against her swelling breats, and leaves his hair static from her cable jumper (stainless steel wool? Tooru wouldn’t be surprised,) and smiled at him as if he’d just announced that world peace was achieved.

 

“You’re still as gorgeous as ever, Tooru-chan! You look like a prince,” she cooed, pinching his cheek in delight.

 

Tooru chuckled nervously, gently pushing her hand away. “Why of course.” He shrugs confidently, even if dread lines his stomach, and  _oh god can he please just go home and watch the final of the Real House Wives?_

 

 

“Gosh, who knew someone could stay so pretty and wrinkle free for so long! You’re not still breaking hearts, are you?”

 

 Tooru laughed sheepishly, still holding his head high. “One’s only young once, auntie.” 

 

His mother cocked an eyebrow, sipping at her wine with an air of impatience.

 

“Yes, but you won’t be young for much longer. Tick tock, tick tock.” the old lady teases.

 

Tooru lets more casual laughter spill from his lips, and only gives his mother a flat look once the over-middle-aged women has moosied off calling “you know where to find me, if you need me Tooru-chan!” 

 

“She has a point,” his mother muses. Tooru grunts in response and scoops up a glass of whine in desperation. “Can I go home now?”

 

“No,” his mother snaps, tugging at his sleeve and dragging him deeper into the crowd. “I must, must,  _must_ show you your surprise now!” 

 

“Mummy, I hate surprises.” He whines, but doesn’t pull back.  _Be strong, Tooru, be strong._

 

“I’m positive you’ll like this one!” His mother gives him another bright smile and tugs Tooru’s tall torso down closer to her small frame.

 

 “Now,” she mummers close to his ear, “the gentlemen I’m about to  _introduce_  you too has recently come out to his family as bisexual, just after breaking it off with his fiancé a few years back. It was a rather scandalous affair, I’ll tell you Tooru! No one suspected a thing. It was nothing like when you came out to us when you were 16, all snotty noses and crying. We knew all along. Honestly, a mother always knows deep down inside—” Tooru clears his throat and tries not too focus on his mothers empathises on introduce, already feeling apprehensive knots in his stomach. 

 

“— anyways, I digress. The point is I’m positive this man is just your type, Tooru-chan! And you  _have_ to say hello to him.” Tooru sighs heavily, and rolls his eyes. 

 

“Only for you.” he coos to his mother.  _I’m a people pleaser,_ he reminds himself bitterly. His mother gives his arm a squeeze and heaves him forward, towards one of the hundreds of refreshment tables. Tooru takes another large gulp of his red wine and pops a dumpling in his mouth from a passing table, mentally thinking to reschedule his diets starting date to Monday. 

 

“Tooru, I want you to say hello to an old family friend.” Tooru stares, breathless, at the figure in front of him. 

 

_Perhaps, for once, mum got it right._

 

His eyes skim over the broad shoulders that stand in front of him, lean muscles cladded almost hilariously in stretched cotton shirt. The dips and curves of toned arms are unhidden by the flismy excuse of a dress shirt. He couldn’t help but build a picture in his mind of the mans face, the rough tousles of uncombed black hair alluding to one of the rough types— the aesthetic of motorbikes and greesed arms, soot smudged faces and low smirks. 

 

Tooru smiled almost morbidly, eyes wide and bright and shining pools of chocolate. This was his one chance, maybe this was it. Maybe the world was finally on his side. 

 

“Tooru, honey, you  _of course_ remember Hajime!” The figure turns to face him, scowling, and Tooru has never felt more insulted and angry in his entire life. 

 

The ellusion is shattered. Love is a lie. 

 

There were several answers that came to mind. The one that sat firm and heavy on his tongue was  _Yes, I remember Iwiazumi Hajime, but I wish I didn’t. That awful, stupid, son of a bitch—._ The others being more threatening and violent variations of this. 

 

Instead, Tooru swallows the unnerving sense of rage and settles for spitting out bitterly, “vaguely.” 

 

Iwaizumi’s scowl doesn’t falter, his nose twitches slightly as he looks over Tooru once, remiding Tooru of his embarrassing clothes. It only seems fitting that every time he comes face to face with Iwaizumi, he’s humiliated somehow. Like a sick tradition. 

 

“Oh, Tooru, you must remember Hajime! You were so close when you were little!” 

 

“Were we?” Tooru huffs, taking a large sip of wine and tries not too splutter to much “must of slipped my mind”, he finished coldly. If there’s a flicker of hurt in Iwaizumi’s eyes, he hides it well. 

 

“How could it? The two of you were inseparable! You did everything together! Why I still have photos of the two of you when you were little. There’s this absolutely adorable photo of  you around 7 or 8, Tooru looks so sweet, he’s playing naked in your paddling pool Hajime—”

 

“Ok, mother, that’s quiet enough, thank you.” His mother scowls, but Tooru is more focussed on elements of the room that have nothing to do with this conversation— such as the ceiling fan. A stationary piece for any middle class family, and one that could never provoke a specific memory of the man in front of him.

 

There’s a tense silence that sits heavy in the air, Tooru glancing in Iwaizumi’s direction once or twice to pin him with a snarky glare. Finally, one of Tooru’s Mother’s friends potters over, eyeing the scene with the same embarrassing hope. 

 

“Oikawa-San, I think the ozoni might need a sev, it’s raugher lumpy.”

 

“It doesn’t need a sev, it’s a soup with sticky rice in it, just stir it.” The friend points Tooru’s Mother with a look and glances not too subtly over at himself and Iwaizumi. His mother catches on, eyes wide and mouth trembling with the need too smile. 

 

“Yes, right, on my way. Stay here, Tooru.” His mother slips her fingers from Tooru’s arm and trots after her friend, Tooru left staring pleadingly. 

 

“What? Mummy no—”

 

“ _Stay._ ” His mother barks back. With a sigh, Tooru recoils his outrstrecthed arm and folds it over the other, desperatly trying to shield himself from the menacing eye directed towards him. 

 

This was just typical, your family advertise you a tropical island escape and end up abandoning you on a deserted sand dune, with no hopes of revival anywhere. 

 

Tooru takes another deep breath,  _being civil is the key,_ and faces the daunting prospect in front of him. Iwaizumi mirrors Tooru’s own body language, defensive and tensed awkwardly, standoffish. Neither speak, air far too thick and heavy to be broken with the likes of fluffy small talk. Tooru still feels like he has to try, however, and shuffles close to Iwaizumi, who looks mildly alarmed. 

 

Tooru grabs the bottle that sits behind Iwaizumi and forgoes etiquette in favour of filling his wine glass to the brim, chugs the lot and fills it again. “So,” he begins, a little giddy from the sudden rush of alcohol to the system, “hows… existing?” 

 

“Nice kimono.” Iwaizumi states flatly, ignoring Tooru’s question. His natural passive stance makes it hard for Tooru to tell if he’s being genuine or not, and he’s not sure if he cares either way. 

 

“Thanks, nice beige shirt. It really suits you— bland.” Iwaizumi twitches and coils his fingers around the edge of his tie, loosening it. He runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes, inhailing. 

 

“I came straight from work.” He mutters. 

 

“Oh really, what do you do?”

 

“Do you actually care, or are you only asking because you don’t know what else to say?” Tooru eyes narrow. 

 

“Oh no, dearest  _Iwa-chan,_ there is plenty to say. I’m just as lovely and polite as I am young and gorgeous.” He takes another large gulp, dishevelling his own pristine hair and pulling at the strands. “I can tell you now it’s something probably boring and expensive, like you.”

 

“Still childish, I see.” The two glare at each other, eyes forced unfavourably heaving years of strain in a single glance. Tooru breaks it with a light and dramatic sigh, swishing his glass. 

 

“Iwa-chan, I think it’s best if we keep this simple and quick until my mother returns, so answer my questions politely and drop the whole brutal cave-man edge you have going on. So, what do you do with yourself nower days?”

 

“I’m a human rights ambassador. Lets address the elephant in the room.”

 

“That must be a very interesting line of work, Iwa-chan, and I already said hello to your mother when I arrived from upstairs.”

 

“My mother isn’t even here.”

 

“No, but that was clever you have to admit. Have you got a pen? I might write that one down.” Iwaizumi grunts unresponsively and crosses his arms in an agressive sweep. Tooru continues to play with his glass, trying to encompass the physique of an elegant aristocrat— on the prow for love. In reality, he probably just looked a little shaken up, drowning in turquoise fabric and scowling at his wine glass like it told an offensive joke. 

 

“Look, Oikawa, I think it’s best if we address what we need too address and move on. I know you and I know how you hold grudges—”

 

“You  _knew_ me.” Tooru corrects harshly. “you know nothing about me now, Iwa-chan, we haven’t spoken in…” Tooru frowns at his fingers, trying to count. 

 

“Nine years.” Iwaizumi provides. 

 

“Nine years! That’s an awful long time, Iwa-chan—”

 

“Quit calling me that!”

 

“—people change. For instance, you’re  _bisexual_ now. How’s that working out for you?” Iwaizumi blinks in surprise, lips parted with a dumstruck expression. 

 

“How did you—”

 

“Oh, I know everything,  _I-Wa-Chan._ For instance, I know you have no intentions or reconciliation with me after you leave here today, and I know you generally don’t dwell on the events between you and I. And I just want to confirm that the feeling is mutual, you selfish and undignified brute.” Iwaizumi grits his teeth, ready to bark out a heard of insults, Tooru is sure. 

 

“So, I’m going to ask you once, and if you can’t answer in a civilised manner then I’m brightening up that hideous shirt of yours with a splash of red wine. So,  _Hajime,_ where do you occupy these days? I’m sure wherever you have settled is just  _lovely.”_ Iwaizumi raises a single eyebrow and takes a calming, shaky breath. His shoulders relax slightly, and he rests his body against the table behind him.

 

“I recently brought a small apartment complex North of Tokyo’s centre.”

 

“That must be nice.”

 

***

 

When people finally begin to trickle Out, Tooru hovers by the door with a large smile and belated breath. He wishes people good health for the next year, and promises come next New Year he  _will_ send every person who asks a haiku post cord, as is tradition. (Tooru has already planned to change his postal address somehow and make years reservations in advance to spend the day getting pissed. )

 

He slyly retreats from his post when he sees Iwaizumi and his father collect their coats from the broom coboard, congratulating his sister on her achievement of not using a condom for the second time. 

 

He hovers behind the stretch of wall next to the staircase, not exactly eavesdropping— because that would be  _super_ immature— but not exactly not listening, either. 

 

“So, Hajime,” Iwaizumi’s father mutters lowly, wrapping his black scarf tightly around his neck, “I noticed you were speaking too Tooru.”

 

“Hm.” Iwaziumi grunted. 

 

“Well?”

 

“Well what?”

 

“Hajime, you know what.” His father scolds, Tooru catching the harsh edge in his voice. “Honestly, I thought you’d only made this shocking life descision because of  _him_ anyways—”

 

“Oikawa Tooru is nothing but a childish brat, who even at 27 can’t pull himself together enough to dress himself and instead relies on his mothers awful taste. I don’t need you, mother or any member of the Oikawa family to throw undignified  _spinsters_ at me, dad. There are plenty of those at work. So lets just drop it, I can’t be late for the 21 bus.” 

 

Tooru slinks against the wall, and there’s a weird taste in his mouth. It might be salt, which is odd, because he thought he’d numbed his tongue with red wine hours ago. His face feels a little damp as well, which was also odd. 

 

It wasn’t like he was crying, no. Grown men don’t cry. 

 

 

*******

 

_“We’re getting married!”_

 

“Traitor.” It’s an immature reaction, and Tooru knows it, but it’s also pretty automatic. With a defeated sigh, he flops back down on the bed with his mothers landline phone still wedged between his head and his shoulder. The open window exposes the silent world outside, night sky covered in heavy cloud. 

 

 _“I know I am! Isn’t it great?”_ Suga squeals from the other side of the line, Tooru doing his best to supress a half-teasing-half-jealous whine.

 

 “ _I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have phoned and waited till you got back, but I just had to tell someone!”_ This time Tooru does whine.

 

“And that someone just  _had_ to be me, did it?” Tooru doesn’t mean for it to sound quiet that venomous and that spiteful, but it causes Suga to pause. There’s a beat of silence, before Suga’s soft laughter spills from the speaker. 

 

“ _Of course it did, Oikawa, you’re one of my closest friends.”_ Tooru groans softly at that, “always with the sentimental guilt trips, refreshing-kun. Why do you do this?” 

 

“ _Because it’s true! And I wanted someone close to me to be the first to hear!”_ Tooru sits up and rolls his eyes. There’s another pause, and Suga whispers lowly into the phone  _“Hey, you okay?”_

 

“Yes, fine. Why?”

 

“ _I don’t know, you sound… off.”_ Tooru shrugs, realises Suga can’t see him and mumbles down the reciever “I’m fine— just a little shaken. I saw a ghost from the past is all.” He clucks his tongue and before Suga can dote on him any longer quickly redirects the conversation. 

 

“So,” he asks casually, “where is lover boy now?” 

 

“ _He’s in the living room, I’ve locked myself in the bathroom.”_

 

“What, why?”

 

“ _Because I was just—so shocked!— Tooru he wants to marry me, of all people! Me!”_

 

“Yes, I know he does. I think anyone whose ever been within a metres radius of the two of you knows he does,  _practically_ from the moment he met you.—Honestly, this isn’t news. I was rather hoping this emergency call of yours was going to be something interesting going on, like an earth quake or a sink hole that swallowed my office whole or something.” There’s another surge of bubbling, giddy laughter from Suga, the last hiccup of a giggle sounding suspiciously like a sob. 

 

“ _I can’t believe this is happening! I don’t even know what to do with myself.”_ Suga’s gush of words if followed by a small punctuating sniff, and Tooru is sure he’s welling up. “ _I’m just so happy!”_

 

 _“_ Wait, you have said yes right? Like you didn’t just run straight into the bathroom and call me, did you?” There’s another long pause, the gentle hum of Suga’s breath being the only clue he’s still on the phone.

 

“ _Shit.”_ Suga whispers. 

 

Tooru laughs, doing his best to muffle it with his hand.

 

“ _I’m just gonna—”_

 

“Yup”, Tooru just about manages to gasp out. 

 

“ _I’ll call you back.”_

 

“Go get Prince Sexy Thighs, Suga-Chan, I’ll be waiting with painted breath!”

 

“ _Yes, right, okay, affirmative. I’m going, yup, talk in a bit/”_ And before Tooru can even part his lips the line falls dead with a small crack. Tooru slides himself off the bed,head tilted back and humming lowly. His back is pressed against the bed, and he tries his hardest not to eye the mirror. 

 

The awful kimono has been discarded over his old desk chair, the still far too vibrant blue catching sparkles from the dim desk light. He considers for a second what would happen if he slid the thing closer to the light, let it catch the heat of the light and burst into a glitter of silky flames. Maybe he could just sit there, amongst the flames, and let them engulf him. 

 

No more dreadful loneliness. No more draining job that drive the meaning out of life. No more suppressive and judgemental society, clucking their tongues at the pathetic sad-act which was Oikawa Tooru’s life. No more destructive pining after awful men—no more men in general. Just blissful, silent death with the promise of a heart breaking funeral with plenty of sun flowers to contrast the dark interior and mood that would settle. 

 

Tooru wasn’t sure on a scale of 1 to 10 how bad it was that the idea seemed sort of appealing. However, to save his mother from being offended that he chose to burn  _her_ house down (“honestly, Tooru, if you hated the curtains that much you could have just  _said_ something)” he decides to scrunch up the offending clothing and shove it in the wash basket. Once it was removed, Tooru’s eyes scanned the desk, untouched like a fossil of his youth from when he was 18.  The only difference was that his things had been neatly piled, like a historians fault in character judgement. He remembered the piles of mess that once harboured the desk, and curiously he pokes through the piles.

 

In all honestly, it was all pretty boring. Just old fragments of assignments long forgotten, an ink stained pencil case and a few scrappy photographs. He makes a point of flicking a photo of himself and—  _him_ — away, a fading photo of two young boys back from a beetle scavenger hunt, he supposes. 

 

Tooru’s eye is, however, drawn to an old fading notebook. He hums sceptically, uncovering it from a stack of scrap paper. It looks eerily familiar, like something from a past life, the same greenish blue like his kimono (Can colours stalk people? Because Tooru is pretty sure that’s what’s going down here). He frowns, debates opening it or not. He feels like he’s intruding on someone else's private recollections, and guilty peeks at it. 

 

The notebook is half full, pages of neat hand writing delicately painting a picture of Tooru’s teenage life. Each day is dated, with what looks like his height (always so desperate to be tall, now resenting a lanky figure), what is presumably his weight (again, always desperate for muscle gain to prove he was  _not_ girly, now desperately trying to shed the softness around his middle) and an aim. The aims seem to get more realistic as the diary goes on, ranging from an ambitious thirteen year old who claims that his goal is to be “ _the best setter that ever lived”_ to a desperate sixteen year old who wants to  _“act a little less homosexual— mummys getting suspicious maybe??”_

 

 He snorts at the page, sitting hunched into a small ball with his arms folded across his knees. He reads the notebook until his eyes skim the last line, ending on a abrupt and rather tragic note. The last words burn angry in the back of his mind. 

 

_He’s going away now, and ~~I think~~  that’s a good thing. That means I never, ever, ever have too see him again. Him and his stupid face and stupid arms and stupid everything. I hate him, I hate him, I HATE him. _

 

Tooru sighs, tracing the words with his finger. Ironically, the sentence could have easily been written in present tense, his attitude today not far from his attitude at sixteen. He finds himself clutching the notebook against his chest, cradelling it. In a split decision, he makes a grab for his duffle back and stuffs the diary inside amongst changes of clothes. 

 

 _I hate him,_ he thinks. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why is there so much dialogue? I'm 
> 
> i want to say things will move faster from now on, but i always tell myself that so who knows tbh

Oikawa returns home to the safe embrace of Tokyo the next day, and one uncomfortable train ride and subway later he finds himself crashed out on his sofa, blinking blankly at his sealing fan. He doesn’t make any effort to move, only watches the hypnotic spin of the fan and the flicker of a light— and between the rickety and choppy train to his dim lit apartment he’s only thought about one thing. Which is, _why am I like this._

 

Tooru plans to do this all night, to not move himself from the sofa until the day after tomorrow when work beckons, when his phone rings. He doesn’t even bother to check the caller ID, only plants the phone against his ear and manages out a monotone “hello?”

 

“ _You didn’t answer your house phone_.” Akaashi states, in a just as blander tone.

 

“I wasn’t in.” 

 

“ _Are you in now_?” Tooru’s eyes flicker around the room, as if to check that the cream walls bearing weird art and photographs actually belong to him, before replying with “yes.” 

 

“ _Ok. Me and Sugawara-san are at the bar. Do you want to join us_?” Oikawa lets out a low groan and shoots up into a sitting position. 

 

“God yes.” 

 

*** 

 

Oikawa Tooru doesn’t pick favourites. He doesn’t really have a favourite item of clothing ( _except the hand knitted forest green jumper his grandma made him as a ‘going away’ present when he first moved to Tokyo)_ nor does he have a favourite food ( _besides Milk Bread, which hardly counts compared to it embodies all the child hood comforts and ties to his inner self, of which he has become dependant on)_ and in the same way, he doesn’t have favourite friends. 

 

However, if you were to force his hand and make him pick some from the dwindling number of friends Tooru even has been able to sustain, they would be the two sitting in front of him. One listening intently as he spins the tragic tale of last nights humiliating affairs, the other looking rather impassive and vacant. 

 

With the exception of one absent friend, Tooru could honestly and whole heartedly state that Akaashi Keiji and Sugawara Koushi are apart of the decreasingly smaller circle of people that he can actually stand. And on the rare occasion when they _do_ make homocide seem like a rather reasonable way to go, it was only because _they cared, Oikawa-san, please stop crying it really isn’t healthy to eat that many bags of maltesers in one go, we’re not_ trying _to ‘make your life a living hell.’_

 

“He sounds awful,” Suga states from the other side of the bar table, reminding Tooru as to why Sugawara has earned his place as a best friend, “who even uses the word _spinster_ anymore _?_ It’s like some weird, twisted, 16th Century version of slut shaming!” Tooru sighs in agreement, slumping lower into his booth and tossing his head back on Akaashi’s shoulder dramatically. Akaashi scowls at the contact, and distastefully pushes Tooru’s head away with the tip of his finger. 

 

“At least he didn’t slut shame you as well,” Akaashi decides to comment, “that really would have been the icing on the cake.” If Sugawara Koushi was a god sent angel, Akaashi Keiji was the hard hitting stern one who sits at the gate of heaven with a massive book, insistent of listing everything you ever did wrong before letting you actually into paradise. Akaashi was as blunt as he was beautiful, bearing a hurtfully honest conscious and unvaryingly impartial when it came to Tooru (or Suga’s) antics. He doesn’t even crack when Tooru pouts his bottom lip. 

 

“Oh refereshing-kun, Keiji-chan, it was so _humiliating!_ He brings the worst out of me. And now he’ll go tell all his lawyer friends that Oikawa Tooru is some lonely, washed out weirdo who likes to wear girls kimonos.” Tooru groans and slumps forwards, head in hands. He peaks through his fingers and catches Suga and Akaashi sending each other one of their cynical looks. 

 

“It’s such a shock to hear that you acted childishly, Oikawa-san, and that you didn’t even let him try to apologise for whatever it is he did to traumatise you for life. So out of character.” Akaashi mutters, reaching out for the wine bottle that sits in the middle of the table. He pours himself a fair amount and sips at it idly, automatically passing the bottle towards Tooru who already has his hand outstretched. 

 

“No!” Suga snaps, quickly snatching the bottle from out of Akaashi’s hands and makes a point of slamming it next to him. “neither of you are allowed to touch this again.”

 

“Oh come on, refereshing-kun, are you my mum?” 

 

“Suga-san, you can’t be serious, this is only my second glass.”

 

“Neither of you are getting drunk, not tonight.” Suga folds his arms adamantly, sending them both a stern glance. His expression wobbles slightly, as he finally gasps out “don’t look at me like that, you two! It’s my night and I want it to be special— not just another night where the two of you drown your problems with alcohol.” 

 

“Suga-chan, I am hurt, offended and personally insulted. You act like me and Keiji-chan are alcoholics!” 

 

“You are.” Suga dead pans. 

 

“It’s true,” Akaashi sighs, leaning closer to Tooru, “medically we’re probably classed as alcoholics.” 

 

Tooru scoffs, arms crossed with betrayal carved into his features. “I am _not_ an alcoholic, I can stop any time I want!”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Go on then.”

 

“…Just not now! I really need to forget last night, seeing all my relatives brought back an intoxicated Universities worth of bad memories. And I need a gallon of alcohol for every inch of that stupid kimono my mother made me wear!” 

 

“You really are a mummys boy, Oikawa-san.” Akaashi hums, trying to slyly pry his fingers around the wine bottle. Suga’s frown hardens, and he swoops the bottle out of his reach. 

 

“Come on you guys! Look, both of you can complain about your problems till the cows come home tonight— I won’t stop you. Akaashi you have my personal permission to speak solidly about the awful shifts at the hospital, and Oikawa you can run your mouth about this rude Iwaizumi human until your throat is soar. But for once, I want a night where no one is drunk and I can enjoy my first night of being engaged with friends, who will _remember it_ tomorrow.” 

 

Akaashi sighs and runs a hand through his hair, he gives Suga a small smile and kindly places a hand on his elbow. “You’re right, Suga-san. We’re sorry for being selfish.” Akaashi turns sharply to Tooru, kicking him keenly in the knee under the table. Tooru winces, and through gritted teeth mumbles “yeah, sorry.” 

 

“So, what is Mr.Thighs doing now?” Tooru wags his eyebrows as he nurses his knee under the table. 

 

“He’s with his volley ball veteran buddies, or something. The police recently opened up their team so anyone can join, and when he told everyone at the station they wanted to take him out for drinks!” Suga sighs happily, toying at his sweater sleeve. “Daichi is so genuine, he didn’t want to go but I insisted that he did. He thinks I’m at home right now, watching TV and eating ice cream.”

 

“So, why didn’t you just tell him you were coming out too?” Akaashi frowns, but Suga only giggles with the same giddy laughter from their conversation on the telephone. 

 

“I don’t really know! It feels kind of sneaky, like I’m some sort of rebellious teenager going out after dark.” 

 

“Love is weird, you’re weird and I’m getting some sort of daddy kink vibes coming from you that I really can’t deal with without a drink.” Tooru can’t help but eye up the wine bottle, “however if you’d let me indulge then I could also _indulge_ you—”

 

“I don’t have a daddy kink! I’m just excited because everything is so new and different now— life is so new and different now! And honestly, Oikawa, you’re acting as if we’ve never spent time together without alcohol.” 

 

“Deffinantly a daddy kink.” Akaashi agrees solemnly. 

 

“Alcohol is as much of a member of this friendship group as you and I, Suga-chan” Tooru adds.

 

“No it’s not! And we _have_ spent time together without alcohol. You two were perfectly fine without wine or vodka when it was Kenma’s birthday.” 

 

“That’s different, because a) we were at Kenma’s house and there wasn’t any alcohol anyways, b) there was plenty of junk food to substitute for it, and c) super drunk people make Kenma uncomfortable so it’s not like I’d go out of my way to hurt Pudding-chan.” Tooru’s eyes narrow as he scans the bar, “speaking of pudding, where is he?” 

 

Suga shrugs, “I don’t know,” he hums “he didn’t reply to the group chat.”

 

“Kenma had already made previous arrangements,” Akaashi provides, and then he steals  a small hesitant glance at Tooru; and sighs out  “with Kuroo.” 

 

A small silence falls between the three of them, and it takes Tooru a moment to realise that Suga and Akaashi are waiting for some sort of reaction. Tooru frowns to himself, unsure if he should react at all. Was it even appropriate to react? If his mother was here, she’d probably tell him that no, it’s wiser to turn a blind eye to previous regrettable _affairs._

 

“Which reminds me,” Akaashi continues, breaking through the silence, “Kenma wanted me to give you a warning.”

 

“A warning?” Tooru echoes, “how exciting! As in ‘you have 20 days to live’ kind of warning or ‘there’s no milk left in the fridge’ kind?”

 

“He wanted me to let you know, that Kuroo is returning to your department.” That does earn a stunned look from Tooru, whose eyes widen with misplaced excitement and totally justifiable sense of unsettlement. 

 

“I thought he’d been promoted to a department in Kyoto?” His voice comes out a little strained and smaller than he’d like, a lot weaker than the unwavering tone of Akaashi or the soft bubble of Suga’s voice. 

 

“It didn’t… suit him.” Akaashi states almost cautiously. He doesn’t look Tooru in the eye, and instead pours himself a large glass of water from the jug, maybe to fill the silence with the sound of something.

 

Tooru stays still for a few more moments, and then finally pushes through. He laughs, fanning his hands out dismissively and gives one of his winning smiles. 

 

“Keiji-chan and pudding are _so_ dramatic. Honestly, Keiji-chan, you have to stop reading those murder mysteries.” He hums happily and Akaashi glances over at Suga, taking an elegant sip of his water. 

 

“Are you sure you’d be comfortable with Kuroo returning?” Tooru can’t help but resent the way Akaashi talks to him, as if he’s treading on fin ice. Yeah sure, okay, maybe things don’t always run _smoothly_ between Tooru and Kuroo. But it’s not like Tooru isn’t a sensible, reliable, _handsome_ and intelligent adult. 

 

After all, if Oikawa Tooru is anything, it is a professional. 

 

“What? Why would I—no? Not—never. I’ll— I’ll be fine.” _Smooth, Tooru, smooth._

 

“There’s no shame in being a little… unnerved about this Oikawa, after everything that’s happened…” Tooru’s frown deepens, trying to shake off the weird way Suga’s concern gets under his skin. 

 

“Why would I be unnerved?” This time, Suga and Akaashi shamelessly glance at each other without even trying to be subtle. 

 

“Because the two of you have history.” Akaashi states.

 

“Because you’ve fucked.” Suga adds, with no sugar coating. 

 

“Sua-chan! Don’t be so vulgar.” Tooru whines. 

 

“Sorry. Because you’ve _exchanged bodily fluids._ ” Suga grins, as if he thinks he’s actually made some kind of clever pun. Akaashi and Tooru just gape. 

 

“Suga-chan, marriage has changed you. That wasn’t very refreshing at all.” Suga humphs and crosses his arms. 

 

“Whatever.” he mutters. 

 

“Look, refreshing-kun, Keiji-chan, honestly _I’ll_ be fine, _it_ will be fine. I am a mature, responsible adult who can deal with _uncomfortable situations.”_ the two raise their eyebrows, again, and don’t say another thing about it. However, the exchange in glances for the rest of the night were unmissable. 

 

***

 

Come next morning, Tooru was indeed not fine. _Not fine at all._ If there was a scale of how unfine Tooru was, with the units being from ‘I can’t do this here’s a gun and do your worst’ too ‘moderately fine’, Tooru doesn’t think he’d even make the scale in the first place. 

 

Somewhere along the night Suga had finally decided to return home, pushing through his giddy teenager moment to find a string of worried text messages from Daichi (who even after two years, is only just coming accustomed to Suga’s unpredictable movements) and begrudgingly shoving the wine bottle towards Tooru and Akaashi, _“go nuts.”_

 

It had only taken one guilty glance between the two of them before the wine glasses were cracked out, and Tooru finally found himself relaxing into the familiar giddy embrace of alcohol. He must of somehow ended up at his house and made it to bed (Akaashi had probably kicked him out of a taxi and then tucked him— he only _pretends_ not too care)  because the next morning he’s woken up from the shelter of his duvet by the shrill sound of his telephone, cutting through the hazy fog in his head and drawing him (reluctantly) to the land of the living. He had a string of weird dreams, sown together by some sort of elusive concept of time he doesn’t really understand. He remembers cardboard rockets and make-shift fishing nets, the flutter of a massive butterflies wing and a toothy grin too wide and too happy to belong to the scowling muscly man he’d met the night before. 

 

He answers the house phone, stumbling into the kitchen, with a potent “ _what.”_

 

It’s Inuoka, and he’s practically begging down the phone for Tooru to come into work. 

 

“ _Please, Oikawa-senpai_ ” he whines in a hushed tone, “ _the office is falling apart without you. Yaku-senpai might tear his hair out with stress and Lev’s driving everyone insane, and the sudden arrival of Kuroo-san’s got what little staff we have in going nuts._ ” there’s a pause, and Tooru groans childishly. 

 

“But I don’t wanna, Inuoka-chan, I still have one more day of leave.”

 

“ _Please, Oikawa-senpai, I know it is but_ — we **_need you_** _._ ” Oikawa huffs, still pouting and feeling a little peeved. Inuoka seems to know how to work people in a way that he gets what he wants out of them. He uses just about the right amount of senpais to give off a passable impression that he actually cares about office status, and seems to beg with an admirable sense of dignity. 

 

So Tooru sighs, pulls on his suit, catches the next train; crams himself in a packed office elevator and finds himself at his desk gnawing at his pencil anxiously. 

 

No, this is not fine at all. He feels like an ex called to his lovers wedding, the day after the break up. He’s not even sure he’s clean shaven (not that Tooru has ever been able to grow a beard in his entire life) and probably looks more than a little hung over. He eyes the door nervously from his desk, the hum of the office acting like a dramatic orchestra ready to climax the moment _he_ walks in. 

 

Yaku seems to notice, as he flicks a pencil over at Tooru from the desk to his left. 

 

“You haven’t even turned your computer on.” Yaku mumbles, as Tooru blinks in surprise at the flying pencil. Before Tooru can even respond Yaku is fussing with planting the back of his hand to Tooru’s forehead. 

 

“You feel warm. Are you “sick”?” he says, using air brackets. Sadly, Yaku is far from stupid. 

 

“I’m fine, Yaku-san, honestly.” Tooru half heartedly brushes Yaku off and tries to fix his hair.

 

 It takes him about 10 more minutes of solid glaring at the door to realise he has a pounding headache and sullenly accepts the paracetamol and water Yaku is waving in his face. He even opens up his desk draw, and with a hefty heart, shoves his awful glasses onto the bridge of his nose with an exasperated puff of air, and doesn’t even think about picking up the makeup mirror he keeps with them. Instead he glares down the door for another half an hour, still not even attempting  to turn his computer on, when his desk phone rings. 

 

“This is the Nekoma’s Crafting Cats publishing, Legal Department. How can I help or direct your call?” Oikawa says, somehow managing to muster the energy to sound slightly perky. 

 

“ _It’s just me_.” 

 

“Oh, hello there sir, thank you for calling— one moment please.” Tooru puts the phone to his shoulder and mouths at Yaku “ _anyone there?”_ Yaku looks over from the top of his computer and crains his neck, then shakes his head. 

 

“Hey Akaashi, what’s up.” 

 

“ _You left your phone in the taxi, and I thought I’d call to let you know._ ” Tooru hums appreciatively, leaning back into his chair. 

 

“Thank you, Keiji-chan, you’re so thoughtful and considerate! How did you know I’d be at work?”

 

“ _I called your home a couple times and you didn’t pick up, and since you only have about three friends and all of them are busy, I guessed the only logical place you’d be would be at work._ ” 

 

“Wow, okay rude.”

 

“ _Or maybe at the supermarket, but I don’t have the contact details for the sweet pastry isle_ ”

 

“ Any other reason to call me besides insult me and return my posessions you stole?”

 

“ _I didn’t steal anything_ ,” Akaashi replies flatly, but then sighs. “ _and I’ve had a long day_.” Tooru frowns at the clock on Yaku’s computer screen. 

 

“It’s only just turned half nine.” 

 

“ _I’ve been on call since 5 o’clock this morning._ ” 

 

“Ouch,” Tooru mutters, “being a doctor sucks.” Akaashi makes some sort of grunting noise in response. 

 

“What’s been so bad about it?” Akaashi pauses before answering, and Tooru can hear the soft sound of foot steps and a door opening and closing. 

 

“ _Sorry, I didn’t want people listening in since it’s against the law to break patient confidentiality._ ”

 

“Ooh~”, Tooru coos, rapping the cord of the phone around his finger, “Keiji-chan is _bad”_

 

“ _You sound like a sex worker._ ” Akaashi deadpans, and the flush on Tooru’s cheeks makes Yaku snort in amusement. 

 

“I do not.”

 

“ _Yes you do. Anyways. I have this new awful patient who I’ve been assigned too and he’s a handful._ ”

 

“Why, what’s so bad about him?”

 

“ _He’s rather insufferable, to be totally honest. Apparently, he’s some big time sportsman or something, set on the olympics, and due to my expertise in orthopaedist and rheumatologist, they’ve asked me to try and help repair his badly torn ligaments and fractures he’s acquired over excessive and overbearing training._ ”

 

“Akaashi, I have no idea what any of those words mean.”

 

“ _They’ve assigned me a loud man whose good at sports because I’m good with legs._ ”

 

“Wow, what an idiot. Who mucks up their big time shot by over working? He does sound insufferable.” 

 

“ _You do, Tooru._ ” Tooru splutters and sits up. 

 

“Wow, okay, hitting a little close to home there Keiji-chan.” Tooru mumbles. 

 

“ _Speaking of insufferable, your mother text you and I thought you should know_.”

 

“Akaashi, you’ve never even met my mum.”

 

“No, but you’ve told me enough. Anyways that’s not what I meant. She’s insisted on sending you Iwaizumi’s mobile number.” This makes Tooru sit up abruptly, eyes wide and mouth gaping.  

 

“She did _not. No way._ ” 

 

“I’m afraid she did. Would it really be that bad if you maybe spoke to him properly, Oikawa-san? I know that he didn’t make the last few years of your child hood particularly enjoyable, but if he’s making an effort to try and reach out—”

 

“Mother sending me his number is not _him_ making an effort, just mother desperately grasping at straws— oh my god, if she gave me his number that probably means she gave him _my_ number!”

 

“Probably.” Akaashi states. 

 

Tooru takes a calming breath and runs a hand through his hair, sinking lower into his chair. 

 

“Iwaizumi Hajime,” Tooru begins, earning him a grown from the other on the receiving end, “is a good for nothing prick and I never want to speak to him again. He is literally some pomperous, over rated dick head—”

 

“Whose an other rated dick head?” 

 

Tooru looks up slowly, his eyes catching the leg of an expensive rose red suit. He gulps, closes his eyes, and allows his vision of view to slowly trail up the torso of the red suit, arms folded over a black sweatered chest in a relaxed fashion with the blazer sleeves scrunched up to the elbows. He doesn’t need to look up to know the face belonging to the suit is grinning some chesser cat grin, wild black main untarnished by a mundane hair brush. He doesn’t need to look to know what he’ll see. 

 

“… that is how some have described the works of Karl Marx, most notably his Communist manifesto. However, as the legal department, I feel like it is should be noted that most of Marx’s criticisers come from Western Conservatism, as opposed to direct challenges of his ideas on communal living. However, when using such phrases about Marx, I would suggest running it also through with our Subsidiary Rights department. Thank you for calling, have a wonderful day Kawabata Yasunari.” Tooru plops the phone down with a little ping, a small satisfied smile, and leans over the desk almost carnally— battering his eyelashes. 

 

“Yahoo, Tetsu-chan— I mean Kuroo-san.” He blinks up at Kuroo with a small curl of a smile, and then frowns when he feels his glasses begin to slip down his nose. Kuroo is, as expected, smirking down at Tooru with a rather deadly grin. He picks at a piece of fluff on his ascu tie, and leans against Tooru’s desk. 

 

“Why hello, Tooru, long time no see. I’m glad to see you’re doing good at work.” Tooru nods happily, forgets how close his head is to the desk, and bangs it against it with a whince. Yaku stifles a laugh. 

 

Kuroo bites down on his lip as Tooru nurses his head. “And I see you where on the phone too, did you say Kawabata Kawabata?” 

 

“mmhmm.”

 

“The Kawabata?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“As in the Kawabata who worn the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1968?”

 

“…That’s the one…”

 

“Oh, well that’s impressive.” Kuroo’s grin only grows, and he gives a small wave to Yaku who blankly returns it with a noncommittal “welcome back.” Kuroo turns to leave, shrugging of his blazer and cooly slinging it over his shoulder. Half way across the room, towards his own private office separated off with a glass door, he turns back and coos “Oikawa-san, do you mean the Kawabata Yasunari who died in 1972?” 

 

Tooru gapes.

 

_Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck._

 

Kuroo shrugs, “impressive.” he states simply, and saunters away to his office with Noboyuki close at his heel, cozying a file and filling Kuroo in on the current departments affairs. 

 

As soon as Kuroo is out of ear shot (not that Tooru thinks Yaku actually cares what Kuroo thinks) Yaku bursts into laughter, and Tooru groans and slams his head on the desk. Purposefully this time. 

 

“Is that— is that Kuroo-san?” Lev gasps, stumbling over to the pairs desk with an astonished expression. 

 

“Not now Lev.” the two unison, Tooru’s voice muffled by wood, and Yaku’s pricked with laughter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> akaakeji.tumblr.com
> 
> shameless self promotions are my passion 
> 
> shoutout to anyone who can guess who the loud, annoying athlete is. totally not obvious. nope.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> where have i been. oh my god. it's almost been 3 weeks. I'm so sorey for anyone who actually cares about this fic. i just. uni man. signing up for stuff. it's stressful flIp. 
> 
> butttt I'm back now, and I'm ready for some oikawa pining and stuff whatever this fic is about. 
> 
> i also apologise for the amount-of-things-typed-like-this in this current chapter, idk why

 

The train staggers to a stop with a jolt, making Tooru spill hot coffee over his hand. He winces and fans his hand out, Sugawara cocking an eyebrow with an amused smirk. The two are pressed together on the busy subway, both huddling around a bar for dear life as the train lurches back into it’s rigged chug. 

 

“You need to keep a hand on the bar, silly, or you’ll fall.” Sugawara hums, glancing a look up from his magazine. Tooru scowls. 

 

“I have caught the underground before, Refreshing-kun. It’s not like we’ve been doing this for the past four years.” However, he still keeps a firm grip on the coffee in his left hand, and an even firmer grip on the coffee in his right. The sugary spill of Tooru’s ‘Raspberry Cheesecake Latte’ (“ _you’re disgusting’,_ Akaashi would mutter every time the pair would go to Starbucks, whilst forking over a handful of yen in exchange for a skinny green tea.) was a loss, but if he was to even let a drop of Yaku’s black coffee spill, then it might as well be the end of the world. 

 

“The fact that you keep making amateur mistakes alerts me otherwise, Oikawa.” Suga wets his fingers and turns the page, happily scanning articles as if he’s relaxing leisurely on a cruise ship or something, not standing up right amongst sweaty strangers in a rather filthy train carriage. Tooru can just about catch the glimpse of the stark white print against a black glossy cover, _Vogue Japan._

 

“ _You’re_ an amateur.” Oikawa mutters childishly. Suga only grins in response, eyes still pressed to his magazine. Then he takes the magazine between both hands and holds out the spread in front of Tooru, as if displaying a painting. 

 

“I _know_ I am.” He flashes one of his winning grins as Tooru’s eyes fall onto the two pages. The background is matte black, with a woman standing in front of it, wearing a maroon lace gown with a train that pools across the foot of the pages. Next to her, in the same maroon colour, is fancy calligraphy— a firm _Sugawara Koishi_ printed at the bottom in bold. Tooru gapes, tucking his already soggy coffee cup under his arm so he can grip at the article excitedly. He looks between Suga’s beaming smile and the article, mouth still open. 

 

“ _Suga.”_ Tooru finally squeals, pointing to the pages desperately, “ _you_ wrote this?” 

Suga nods happily, laughing along as Tooru continues to paw at the sheer magazine. 

 

“That’s… that’s _insane._ You’re article is in _Vogue_! _”_

 

“Yeah,” Suga coos, carefully taking the latte wedged between Tooru’s arms into his own hands to hold, maybe stealing a sip, “I know. I didn’t think they were going to print it.”

 

“Refreshing-kun, you have to be, like, one of _the youngest_ writers for Vogue. This is so exciting!” Tooru doesn’t even bat an eyelid as Suga takes an obnoxiously large sip of his latte, too wrapped up in the excitement of knowing someone _sort of_ famous too even care. Suga slowly uncurls the magazine from Tooru’s grip, still smiling feverishly. 

 

“I don’t think that’s totally true, Tooru. I’m half way to twenty-seven and a half, but I’m still… well…” Suga pauses, eyes darting around the train as if searching for words, “proud of myself.” A small flush blossoms on Suga’s cheeks, looking anywhere but at Tooru. 

 

But Tooru is still grinning manically, and as the train pulls into their station he slaps a firm arm around Suga’s shoulders, guiding him out of the exit. “And I’m proud of _you,_ Suga. We have to celebrate!” 

  
Suga giggles again, Tooru still with his book bag hitched high on his shoulders and gripping Yaku’s coffee, Suga practically the new owner of Tooru’s Raspberry Cheesecake Latte. 

 

“Suga-kun you’re going to be famous, like Anna Winter.” He swings his arms out happily, Suga crooing underneath his span with his brows creased. “Do you mean Anna Wintour?” he provides sheepishly. 

 

“Who cares?” Tooru laughs, darting through the crowds of people and towards the metal stares, leading out onto the street, he turns around to grin at Suga, “Soon it will be _Sugawara Koushi._ Chief editor of Japanese Vouge— sitting front and centre of Yeezy fashion shows.” 

 

“There’s more brands than just Yeezy, Tooru,” Sugawara mumbles, keeping a firm grip on Tooru’s arm to stop him from darting too far ahead; but Tooru spins again to turn to look at him, and as he does that he collides backwards into a herd of people. 

 

With an ungraceful squawk, Tooru finds his feet entangled with a series of rushing legs, stumbling backwards until he finally falls, halfway to the floor, until his body hits firm with another. His arms are sprawled out, coffee spilled all down his brown tweed jacket, burning and making him yelp in pain, only withering further into the body next to him. He lets another painful gasp escape from his lips before he squeezes his eyes shut and finally falls fully into the person behind him, who firmly has their arms hooked between the crook of Tooru’s elbows to keep him from hitting the pavement. Tooru wheezes, squeezing back tears. 

 

“ _Frick, that’s hot.”_ he howls, and he feels a rush of fingers as they tug off his jacket. Tooru’s still moaning as the person behind throws the hot material to the ground and spins him around, examining him. 

 

“Does it still hurt? Did it burn you?” The gruff voice asks, practically kneading Tooru’s arms between heavy fingers. Tooru whines, brushing his own hands against his white shirt, soiled with the splatter of black coffee. 

 

“My shirt.” he whines, wiping hopelessly at the stained material, piercing heat long forgotten. Suga finally barges his way through the thick crowds to where Tooru stands, pressed between the man and the underground wall. He gestures hopelessly to his shirt, and then his discarded blazer. 

 

“Refreshing-kun, look at my shirt.” Suga’s brows come together in a look of pity, giving a small tut. Tooru sighs and pushes his bangs out of his eyes, turning to the stranger. He’s about to say something, probably along the lines of “Thanks, I guess,” when their eyes  finally meet, faces inches apart. 

 

And he sees red. 

 

“ _You._ ” He spits sinisterly, as if he’s just been confronted with a life long enemy. 

 

Iwaizumi makes a show of rolling his eyes, crossing his arms in the same defensive manner from when they last met. He’s scowling, again, and Tooru wonders if Iwaizumi is actually capable of any other facial expression. 

 

“Yes, it’s me. Are you alright?”

 

“What are _you_ doing here, _you_ can’t be here.” Tooru stumbles back, grabbing at Suga and shoving him between the two. He can’t see Suga’s expression, but he can feel him dig his heels into the pavement to stop Tooru from throwing him forward like a battering ram. 

 

“Oikawa, you don’t own the underground, it’s _public_ transport for the _general public_ , which we both happen to be members of.” 

 

Tooru narrows his eyes, still feeling slightly attacked and as if he’s walking into a trap, ignoring the gentle squeeze of Suga’s hand as he desperately tries to coax Tooru away from the weird and awkward situation. 

 

“But what are you doing _here,_ getting off at this station. I’ve never seen you here before, ever.” 

 

“I told you, I live in the South of Tokyo now. My new office is a couple hundred yards from here.” Tooru finally drops Suga’s shoulders abruptly, and flaps his arms dramatically. He almost catches another stranger in the midst of his flapping. 

 

“Well that’s just _fantastic,_ I love my life _so flipping much._ We should walk together everyday to work, like the good old days. This is the best thing ever.” He turns away, slinging his bag over his shoulder and storming away with Suga towed between his arms. 

 

“Oikawa…” Tooru turns with a venomous expression, eyes falling as Iwaizumi gently waves Tooru’s blazer between his fingers. He holds it out to him, face still placid and stone cold, posture stiff. Tooru quickly snatches the jackets and makes his way back towards the metal stairs. 

 

“Bye Iwa-chan,” he calls over his shoulder, “be seeing you never.” he doesn’t look back, doesn’t need too. Instead Suga gives a small and sheepish wave in Iwaizumi’s general direction. 

 

“You,” Tooru hisses, pulling Suga closer to him, “ _don’t_ say anything.” The two are finally, _finally,_ climbing their way back into daylight with their arms linked together. Tooru feels like he’s been starved of air as he finally breaks into the busy Tokyo streets, winter chill nipping at the exposed skin between his neck and jaw. 

 

Suga hums in response, stuffing his hands into his winter coat pockets. He’s still smiling with the vogue magazine wedged neatly under his arm, eyes swimming dangerously with what Tooru can only place as mischief. 

 

“So that was the famous Iwa-chan, huh?” Oikawa grunts in response as the pair come to a still by the traffic lights. He stands stiff with Suga’s arm still linked  firmly in his. 

 

“He seems sweet,” Suga hums, “a little grumpy, but sweet. Like he just wants what’s best.” Tooru humphs again and hugs the blazer folded between his arms closer to his chest. 

 

“The best for who?”

 

“Just you know, the best. He just wants everyone to be okay.” Tooru doesn’t say anything, just eyes Suga up sceptically and nods slowly. Sometimes, it’s best not to pry. 

 

By the time Tooru is stumbling into his office building, feeling a little disheveled or like he’d had to crawl out of a mud tunnel with nothing but his finger nails, he’s already ten minutes late.  He almost  considers turning around, especially when the elevator doors ping open to reveal a scowling Ushiwaka, looking his usual iron mungoring self. Tooru keeps a large and frustrated sigh between his teeth, and begrudgingly nudges his way into the packed elevator past the wall-of-a-man. 

 

He hopes he could squeeze his slim(ish) frame amongst the busied bodies and blend in, like a scratch of green paint amongst an artists interpitation of a bush, but Ushiwaka’s hard eyes burn holes in the back of Tooru’s neck. 

 

“Oikawa,” he calls out, voice like a tonne of bricks. Tooru takes a large breath, and turns back to face Ushiwaka, hair now sticking on ends and cheeks flushed. He knows he looks like a mess, and meeting eyes with Ushiwaka across the few bodies separating them reminds Tooru of getting told off for dress code back in high school. 

 

“Ushi…jima… what a pleasant surprise.” he splutters out through gritted teeth. The man next to him eyes him curiously, but as per usual Ushiwaka sees nothing off about Tooru’s behaviour. Instead, he gently nudges the women standing next to Tooru out of the way so he can stand next to him, his frame heavy like stone and bumping Tooru’s shoulder awkwardly. 

 

“I heard you’re the Legal Departments representative for the launch party this Friday.” He states.

 

Tooru blinks up at him. He has literally never heard about a launch party, ever. 

 

“Sure.” he says after a long pause. Yeah, sure he is, whatever. (what book where they even launching?) 

 

“Well, as chief director of the companies Tokyo Firm it is my job to give a speech.” Ushikwaka declares, as if this should mean something too Tooru. 

 

“Great, well good for you I guess.” The elevator doors ping open, the three people squashed in between the pair scurrying off into a maze of offices. For one wonderful moment, Tooru thought that Ushiwaka might shuffle after them, leaving him some room to breathe and taking the obnoxiously large suitcase that currently digs into Tooru’s lower back with him. But sadly, he doesn’t— in fact he doesn’t even move away from Tooru, the two still sharing breathe. 

 

“I thought it would be good if you introduced me, first. And then I would introduce the author.” Tooru finds himself pressed into the side of the elevator bearing a confused expression. 

 

“What, why?” The bluntness earns him a twitch of Ushikwaka’s brow, which acts as a reminder to Tooru that he is actually talking to the head of a company. The man who controls his payroll and job security. 

 

“Because, you seem rather… charasmatic. And it might seem fun…” Ushiwaka hesitates, before almost flustedly spitting out “it might seem _quirky._ ” He ends the sentence quickly, like the word burns hot on his tongue. Tooru simply nods and tries not to resent the way that Ushiwaka makes his blood boil. He reminds himself slowly in his head that Uskiwaka is, how Yaku delicately describes it to be “socially inept,” Yamamoto opting for the less gracious “awkward as fuck.” Either way, he needs to hold onto the glimpse of hope that this conversation is just as painful for Ushiwaka as it is for him, letting Tooru bathe in the hope that his long resented superior could possibly be suffering ever so, ever so slightly. 

 

The doors ping again, snapping Tooru out of his thoughts and reminding him that he hasn’t said anything for a good twenty seconds. He turns to Ushiwaka with a bright smile and a small hand wave. 

 

“Sounds fun, Ushijima-kun. I’d be happy too do it.” Tooru steps out of the elevator and onto the carpeted floor, Ushiwaka hesitating in the frame. He steps back after a moment, giving Tooru a curt nod and what he thinks is a grunted ‘good’ before the doors slide shut again. Tooru turns, shoulders hunched, to stare his office floor down. 

 

“You know, if someone told me that I’m this damn departments _flipping representative.”_ He rings his jacket between his fingers and storms over to his desk, not even surprised to find Kuroo sitting in his swizzle chair with his feet propped up on Tooru’s desk. 

 

Kuroo seems to be talking to Yaku idly, flicking Tooru’s alien bobble head absentmindedly as they chat. He doesn’t bat an eye lid at Tooru, even when he slams his book bag down in front of him, papers spilling out. Instead, he lets his conversation with Yaku drool to a holt, and then slowly casts his eyes over to his expensive looking wrist watch. 

 

“You’re late,” he says. He lays eyes on Tooru, his lips pulling into a small smirk. 

“Sorry.” Tooru mutters out, waiting rather impatiently for Kuroo to move out of his seat. He doesn’t look like he intends too, however, instead jabbing Tooru with one of the desk pencils over chest, still stained with coffee. 

 

“What happened to your shirt?” 

 

Tooru shrugs, “Bumped into an old acquaintance. The coffee was Yaku’s,” he turns to address Yaku, “sorry Yaku.”

“It’s fine, as long as you’re alright.” Yaku sighs, rubbing at his eyes sleepily, “you weren’t burnt, were you?” 

 

“Only my ego,” Tooru mutters as his hands tremble by his sides. He casts a dark glare at Kuroo, deciding he’d had enough run-ins with the ghost of his past for one day. “ _Move_.” Tooru growls. 

 

“Okay, okay, I’m moving.” Kuroo slowly pushes himself out of Tooru’s chair, hands held up defensively, “that’s no way to talk to your boss, just so you know.”

 

“I don’t care,” Tooru spits grumpily, slumping into his chair, “fire me.” 

 

“I couldn’t fire you, Tooru. Then who would we all make fun of?” Tooru moans and lets his cheeks meet with the cool of fake wood, eyes scrunched shut. “Lev, you could all easily make fun of Lev.”

 

“Or Yamamoto.” Yaku adds in agreement. Kuroo hums in response.

 

 Yamamoto pokes his nose over his desk divider, popping a headphone he’s definitely not suppose to be using out of his ear, “Oi, I can hear you.” Nobody responds. 

 

“You’re right, Tooru, you no longer have any purpose in this office.” Tooru can hear the grin in Kuroo’s voice, and it makes something at the bottom of his spine prick with familiarity. 

 

 Kuroo’s only been back for a week, and yet it felt like he’d never left. He’d easily slipped himself back into everyday office life, his slender (but well built, Tooru reluctantly has to note) frame sinking into the bosses large desk chair as if it was built for him. A wielded throne moulded to Kuroo’s body, anyone who sat in it before nothing but a seat warmer to it’s rightful owner. 

 

The only thing that was missing was the flirty emails. Tooru hadn’t received one, not a single email that contains anything slightly suggestive. At first, Tooru had thought maybe that there was some new system going on with tech that he just didn’t know about, that anything slightly inappropriate would get spammed and deleted immediately. 

 

But then he remembered Tendou Satori had recently been promoted as head ‘tech-guy’, and that there was no way the kid who would stroke a spanner suggestively when Tooru walked past would put some sort of block on the emails. In fact, if anything, Tendou would make it his personal business to make sure that anything slightly racy would make it’s way to Tooru, who he firmly believed needed to “chill, and let loose.” 

 

So, reluctantly, Tooru had finally come to the conclusion that Kuroo sincerly wasn’t interested in flirting with him. That in the year he’d been away Tooru had finally stepped the line he’d been toeing for a while and become ‘undesirable’. If his once reliable ‘friend with benefits’ wouldn’t even glance his way now, then honestly what was the point?

 

It was confusing, in the sense Tooru had been adamant that he no longer wanted too be involved with Kuroo. That any sort of fantasies about Kuroo—if they be dirty or domestic—were off limits after so many nights ended in waking up alone, with an empty heart and aching head. 

 

Yet, he supposed, it was just a dead confirmation that he really was hitting his peak. 

 

“I hope Oikawa-san leaves.” Lev chirps happily,  appearing out of nowhere to place a cup of coffee in front of Yaku’s desk. Yaku makes some sort of grateful noise and takes a large gulp of the steaming liquid, not even recoiling at the heat. Tooru gapes at Lev. 

 

“ _Lev! So mean!_ ” He wails into the desk, “not even Lev, _the intern,_ wants me around.” Kuroo leans against the desk snickering. 

 

“Oikawa-san forgets, I’m not the intern anymore.” Lev sings happily. But sadly, no, no-one can seem to forget that Lev is no longer the intern but actually works here— forever. “Anyways, Oikawa-san, you misunderstood— it’s a compliment.”

 

“ _How!?”_

 

“If you leave, then that makes me the cutest guy in the office.” Lev proclaims. Tooru perks up immediately. 

 

“You think I’m the cutest guy in the office?”

 

“Surely you should think Yaku is the cutest guy in the office,” Kuroo muses, “since you know, he only hired you because the two of you started fu—”

 

“That’s quiet enough, Kuroo.” Yaku snaps, swatting at Kuroo’s hand with a ruler. “my private life shouldn’t be the talk of the office.” 

 

“It sort of is, in the sense that if Lev files any sexual harassment suits against you it’s me who has to do the paper work.” Kuroo adds. 

 

“Okay, all of you stop talking—what we should be focusing on is that Lev thinks I’m the cutest guy in the office.” Tooru puffs out his chest, teasing his hand through his bangs with a pang of pride. Kuroo raises an eyebrow almost teasingly and Tooru swears he leans in a little closer. 

 

“If you’re the cutest, Oikawa, then I’m the hottest.” and with that, Kuroo spins on his heel just as Noboyuki emerges from Kuroo’s glass office, probably wondering where their stray-cat-of-a-boss has wondered off too this time. 

 

“Get back to work, you lot” Kuroo calls, “especially Oikawa— who has party planning to do.” Tooru’s mood automatically drops, along with the giddy grin he realises has eased it’s way onto his face. The dust of pink won’t fade for a while, he knows, so instead he burries his head in paperwork to protect his dignity. 

 

“A night alone with that guy,” Yamamoto calls from over his desk divider, popping up from behind Yaku with a pained expression, “good luck, Oikawa.” Tooru frowns and spins on his chair too face Yamamoto. 

 

“What do you mean, alone?” 

 

“You’re the office rep.” Yamamoto shrugs, folding his arms over the divider, “none of us have to go, and I for one aren’t sacrificing no Friday night for an office thing.”

 

“But Kuroo is?” 

 

“Kuroo has to, he’s the boss. So it’ll just be the two of you from our department.” Yamamoto scratches at his jaw and adds “mind you, probably some cute girls there. So I mean I envy you on that level.” Tooru doesn’t think it’s worth adding that the last time he had been with a girl was when he was eighteen, and even then it was just kissing. 

 

“Good thing I’m the cutest boy in the office, then.” Tooru decides on instead, giving a sickening smile, “probably why I’m the office rep.” Yamamoto glares at the back of Tooru’s head as he spins around, signalling the end of the conversation. 

 

Tooru ends up leaving the office at around 7pm, an hour or so after he was supposedly meant to have finished. Out of nowhere an abundance of paper work seemed to have piled on his desk, throughout the day Inouka passing Tooru’s desk with a guilty expression and apologetically slipping more forms onto the growing pile. By the time lunch time comes he’s nose deep in it with a stack so high it blocks his perpetual line of vision. Maybe in someways he’s grateful, it gives him an excuse to duck out of going too the burger bar with Lev and Yaku (Tooru finds Lev barable in small doses) and allows people to slink out of the office and past him, on their way home, with minimal teasing. Tendou still somehow makes an excuse to come down and irrtate him, however, happily wagging around a box full of tools as he bangs fruitlessly at Lev’s flickering computer screen. 

 

The silence of a late night office brings some sort of solidity, a peaceful calm washing over the empty building as his desk bathes in his dim desk light. Currently, Tooru has his tongue stuck out practically licking the form he currently scans, four unanswered emails still mocking him on the monitor. He’s about to sign off yet another legal form when the paper is snatched from his vision, Tooru having to blink a few times to clarify that the document has actually moved— and he’s not seeing things. The Document Snatcher waves the paper in front of Tooru’s eyes almost mockingly. 

 

“Times up, kiddo.” Kuroo renders, slipping the paper back onto Tooru’s shrinking pile, then using one of his long fingers to flick Tooru’s lamp off. Tooru frowns, eyes squinting in the shadows to meet with Kuroo’s bright eyes. 

 

“I’m older than you, Tetsu-chan,” Tooru mutters, rubbing his hand with his face and groaning quietly. “don’t tease me.” 

 

“I’m not teasing you, you’re times up. Go home and get some rest.” Kuroo’s voice drips with sincerity, making Tooru’s chest pang uncomfortably from the tiny bit of concern sent in his direction. It makes him almost feel touched starved in the face of Kuroo, whose cat like eyes shine even in the looming dark, skin kissed gently with the city lights pouring from the massive windows that backdrops the office. He looks gorgeous, Tooru can’t help but think, almost vulgar. 

 

So with a sigh Tooru pushes himself out of his desk and makes a clumsy grab for his book bag, finding it hard too see in the darkness without his glasses. In the end, Kuroo ends up teasingly swatting Tooru’s hands away and carrying the bag for him, bumping it on his back with his own. He has a jokey, but firm grip on Tooru’s blazer sleeve as he guides the so called ‘I’m-not-that-blind-Tooru’ out of the office and towards the elivator. 

 

The two swing in, bumping shoulders and closed together. The hum of the elivator music seems to fill the need for conversation, lulling Tooru into a false sense of security as he slowly lets his posture sink and leans against Kuroo. 

 

“What, you sleepy or something?” Kuroo grins, nudging Tooru gently. 

 

Tooru closes his eyes and lets a small and content sigh pass through his lips, “Don’t ruin the moment, Tetsu-chan. Just be quiet for once.” He whines. 

 

Kuroo grunts in response, “That’s rich coming from you.” But then he drops the conversation, and lets Tooru enjoy the comfort of another’s press. 

 

Tooru can feel the hesitant hover of Kuroo’s arm against his back, slowly growing firmer and more confident as it slinks down to rest on his lower back. He jumps, slightly, at the firmness of Kuroo’s touch and makes Kuroo pull is brows together questioning. It’s a silent “ _is this okay?’_ and it makes Tooru wonder if it is. But even if he could ever admit it out loud or not, Tooru enjoys the heat pooling at his lower back, ravishes in the touch of fingers skating against his still stained shirt. He can feel the smooth shift of Kuroo’s fingers etching a little lower, inches away from crossing the line into that kind of territory, and Tooru bites down on his bottom lip in anticipation. 

 

But the doors clang apart with a loud ‘ping’ causing both Tooru and Kuroo to jump apart in shock. The doors slide away to reveal Ushiwaka with his usual stare, eyeing the pair carefully. He walks into the elevator as if he’s got a rain cloud over his head, and is intent on making sure that Tooru and Kuroo suffer with his sourer mood. Tendou pops out from behind his towering frame, happily skipping into the little elevator with one hand stuffed in his hoodie pocket and the other tapping lazily at his iPhone. 

 

“Sup,” he greets cooly, popping the ‘p’ obnoxiously. Tooru scrunches his nose in aggravation as Ushiwaka stands too close, _again,_ with Tendou slumped against his side, as if Ushiwaka really was nothing but an iron wall. 

 

In the corner of his eye, Tooru is able to catch the small eye roll Kuroo gives, followed by the hiss of what he guesses his frustration between his teeth. It makes Tooru almost feel like blushing and opts too stare down at his scuffed shoes, and think. 

 

Kuroo is frustrated. Kuroo didn’t _want_ other people to come into the elevator. Kuroo, after waiting sometime, had decided to insinuate something. Perhaps Kuroo had even planned this, maybe took a step back and decided to assess the situation before acting. Perhaps Kuroo was different, that things between them hadn’t fizzled out, only been lit with a different kind of flame. A careful flame, like a science teacher’s bunsen burner. (not the best metaphor but sure, it does the job.)

 

_Maybe, not all hope is lost._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> still won't say when I've updated I'm so so confused. oh well

sorry still not saying when I update


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